


...a little desert town, wherein fall those who need it most

by foundCarcosa



Category: Marvel, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Night Vale Community Radio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 10:42:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5663311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Night Vale doesn't need superheroes, but maybe superheroes need Night Vale.<br/>featuring Rhodey as NVCR's beloved Voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	...a little desert town, wherein fall those who need it most

His given name is James, but there are several Jameses in town, and there is only one Rhodes, so they just call him Rhodes. If you’re especially fond of him, the last syllable develops a lilt, an affectionate vowel sound; most people call him _Rhodes,_ but there are a significant few that call him _Rhodey._

He is not remarkable, by any standard – he keeps his hair short and his face clean-shaven, is still spiritually bound to uniformity and scripted decorum, is courteous to elderly women, five-headed dragons, and sucking voids alike, and is secretly very fond of cats. Sometimes his rheumy, unblinking eyes can be startling, but everyone’s used to that now – it’s been years since he fell to Night Vale in a failing aircraft, some integral part of him burning away with the plane, a hole for his new and soon-to-be-beloved home to fill in the way only Night Vale knew how.   
But a couple of times a week, he limps into the studio of Night Vale Community Radio, shares dixie cups of coffee and small bites of friendly conversation with an intern, and takes a moment to compose himself before coming face-to-face with the microphone.

His fingers on the Braille-covered prompt cards, his eyes staring into the spaces only he can see, he smiles broadly.

“Sometimes you are the hammer. Sometimes you are the nail. Sometimes you are a time-warping singularity, in which neither the hammer nor the nail exists, except in your melting mind. Welcome… to Night Vale.”

\-------------------

No one knows that Rhodes can fly.

He prefers it that way. There is something private and heady and sacred in the ritual of stepping into the large metal suit, the cocoon that closes around him and whirs to life; something sweet and secret and comforting in forming the neural connection, in letting the AI into his mind, in shuffling off the limitations of his crippled and ruined human body and becoming whole in a way that no amount of therapy or time could create for him.

And there was _duty_ here, the feeling of protecting that which he held dear – the core of why he’d joined the United States Air Force so long ago. He did not suit up and fly just to indulge his own pleasures. He suited up and flew because Night Vale needed him to – because when strange buzzing shadowy figures ripped open the integrity of Night Vale and attempted to warp its reality, someone needed to push them back and repair the rift before lunchtime.

“You may have noticed a bit of a temporal disturbance earlier today, especially if you decided to take your lunch at the Arby’s. You may have found that lunch suddenly became breakfast, without warning, and without a customary change in the menu cards above the counter. Apparently, there was an influx of fire ants in the clock tower, which, as we all know, controls all local time as we understand it. But none other but Night Vale’s own _War Machine_ humanely disposed of said fire ants and vanquished their somewhat-intangible summoner, all before dinner time… or before breakfast time could suddenly turn into dinner time. Or… well, never mind the specifics, listeners – let’s have a cheer for War Machine! Whatever would we do without him… or her, or it, or them?”

\-------------------

Rhodes attends every press conference that Mayor Winchell calls, whether he can physically be there or not. He happens to be broadcasting when The Scientist makes himself known, striding into the Town Hall and shoving sheets of mimeographed paper into the faces of anyone who didn’t appear faceless, shouting his righteous indignation.

The mayor gave him his audience because she believed in equal opportunity, even to outsiders. Besides, he had _mimeographed papers,_ covered in arcane symbols that were later revealed to be the hallmarks of _scientific data._ He seemed legitimate.

Rhodes watches from his seat in front of the microphone, his hand absently massaging his weakened right leg, his white eyes twitching every so often as they take in the sight that is physically blocks away from him but metaphysically exactly where he needs it to be. The Scientist leans into the microphone set before him, and Rhodes leans forward as well, his breath trapped in his throat.

“I’ll have you know that everything here is wrong. Completely wrong. I was just passing through, but it looks like I’ll have to stay, and fix it for you. Because that’s just the kind of guy I am. You’re welcome.”

He says more, pointing out things like the strange coloured lights above the Arby’s -– which, admittedly, Rhodes doesn’t quite understand either -– and the irregular weather patterns and Hiram McDaniels -– four of his heads, at least; Rhodes isn’t quite sure whether he’s offended by Hiram’s multiple heads or their visibly draconic appearance -– as evidence of Night Vale’s _wrong_ ness, and Rhodes has always spoken out against the negative opinions of visitors, assuring his listeners in his rolling, molasses-sweet voice that the small, close-knit town that had so readily adopted him is and always has been wonderful _just_ the way it is…

… Except The Scientist smiles at the end of his tirade, satisfied with himself, fresh with determination and the self-imposed saintliness of the enlightened, and Rhodes finds himself smiling back.

“He says, listeners, that he’s been sent here to save us. _From what, Rhodey?_ I hear you ask, in righteous consternation. _From what do we need to be saved?_ I admit, I am unsure myself. Night Vale is beautiful. Strange, yes, but beautiful in its strangeness, and it has always been good to me. In my heart, I hope… I hope that Night Vale is good to him, as well.  
The Scientist – _Tony Stark,_ as we have all heard him introduce himself, and what a striking name indeed – is apparently staying in Night Vale, dear listeners. He may be a little difficult to deal with, but I ask you, from the bottom of my confused but mostly beating heart, take him in as you have taken me. For he may need _us._ This… impeccable Tony Stark, utterly perfect as he may seem, may indeed need us more than we need him.”


End file.
